//------------------------------// // 6. Changelings // Story: The Halfling // by Scarheart //------------------------------// Edited by iakovl and Magic Man Wilda was large, even for a changeling mare, more so in girth and in her flanks than anywhere else. Her pale lavender mane and tail was always kept in tight buns when she slept and let down during the day until it was time for bed. She had a notched ear from a fight long ago, in her wilder days as a nymph trying too hard to be an adult. Her brood of seven (soon to be eight) hatchlings and her flower shop kept her busy. Twelve years of laying eggs, fleeing her homeland, purchasing the store and running it, and going through three husbands in the process made her a harder mare, if anything. She was gentle to the young ones of all species she came across, as it was in her nature to give them the benefit of being born with brain damage, figuratively speaking. All children had it, she learned through experience. Sometimes they grew out of it as they matured and even made something of themselves, unlike the previous two mates she had the misfortune of being with before her third husband came along. The third one had promise; he was not lazy and actually contributed to the family. The last two eggs were his. Yamir worked nightshifts in the crystal mines as a forepony. Yamir was easily younger than she was, a stallion always eager to please his wife, even if that meant bonding with her unruly offspring. In return, Wilda doted over him almost as much as she doted over her youngest. He was a good provider. Having the largest family in the changeling community of the Crystal City started a good-natured joke she was a queen of her own little hive. ‘Queen’ Wilda was proud of the title, though she never publicly referred to herself as one. A community leader as well as mother and businessling, Wilda was often looked up to when her neighbors had squabbles or a certain problem needed to be addressed. She was loud, proud and unafraid of anything, after raising 7 nymphs nothing could scare her. Behind her back, it was joked she had eaten her previous two husbands. She heard the rumors, of course, for it was a small community. Wilda did nothing to discourage it, as it gave her a fearsome reputation. The truth was, she had rotten luck with husbands; the first one being a deadbeat while the other one died during the recent fall of the queen. How did that saying go? The third time's the charm? Once, she must have been trained for combat, though her egg laying days had made her a bit more plump in certain places. Wilda could still turn heads after so many years, even when carrying some of her younger children on her back while shopping in the market. Proud of her heritage, she held herself appropriately and brooked no foolishness. Shrewd in her dealings and quicker with a sale, Wilda was respected by her peers, even if that respect was touched by envy. When her old home fell to the ravages of civil strife, she packed up her family and followed her instincts north. It brought her to the Crystal Empire and there she found herself a home and her current husband. For a female changeling, she was considered quite handsome and Yamir considered himself quite lucky indeed to be able to marry such a mare! It was a particular morning as she prepared to open her little shop when her day was ruined before the sun could even rise. Her husband had already left for work the previous evening, leaving her eldest son to take out the trash. She was working on her first cup of morning coffee and the always endless yawns stretching her muzzle as she read the morning paper. Her harlequin eyes found the front page screaming the adopted prince’s rumored failing health: REIGN FALLING: PRINCE BLUEBLOOD DEMANDS INVESTIGATION Wilda frowned darkly, crumpling up the paper with disgust. That was the wrong paper. Her paperpony delivered for two different papers and on occasion delivered the wrong one to the wrong address. This particular edition was from the Daily Equestrian, a nice name for a not-so-nice fringe paper. It was owned by one of the nobles in Canterlot. Since the announcement of the adoption of Prince Reign Cloud six months ago, the chief editor seemed to make it a point to print attacks on the ‘Half Breed Bastard’ as if the small, helpless foal was responsible for the Canterlot invasion a couple of years ago. It seemed some of the ponies who came from Equestria held grudges against any changeling. Wilda had never had a problem personally from the Crystal ponies, but those who emigrated from the home nation of the three tribes tended to have some form of hostility towards her and her species. It wasn’t rampant and the acts of prejudice were few and far between. Wilda rolled her eyes, finding it difficult to picture herbivores hunting predators. Papers like the Daily Equestrian, however, made outrageous demands on curtailing changeling freedoms. Some ponies simply had to use local media to voice their personal distastes. The editor had apparently decided to declare a personal vendetta against a hatchling! Of course, every common changeling and pony who knew anything about the paper knew the editor channeled the snobbish unicorn’s will to print. Blueblood was aiming at a foal. A foal! “Coward,” she muttered, remembering the day she met the princess. Cadence was a very kind pony and did not discriminate against any species. How proudly she showed off Reign Cloud as though she had birthed him herself! The princess was very curious and respectful, asking Wilda many questions about changelings in general. Specifically her queries focuses on how to raise nymphs as there were notable differences from ponys. Though the legends regarding Halfling scared the wits out of the Nobles, Wilda could care less about the old stories. Reign was a foal! A helpless, cute little nymph who needed a loving mother. He had plenty of both, but it all seemed for naught. Something was wrong at the palace; something amiss. Despite the joy shared by the Princess and the Prince Consort, a dark cloud gathering over the family. Whispers drifted from the castle staff and became rumors and gossip among the citizens and as such spread like wildfire. Nopony or noling would dare say something beyond a harsh whisper. It was simply too awful to even speculate upon. Imagine if such words were uttered conversationally, Princess Cadence would burst into tears and Prince Shining Armor would be out and about, seeking the head of the one who would dare suggest the unthinkable! “Poor little thing,” she whispered, picking up the paper she liked. The Imperial Word was a leftover from Sombra’s reign, formerly spouting his propaganda and edicts. Now it was the common paper for the common citizen. It steered away from sensationalism and concentrated on factual articles. Not surprisingly, the main headline also had to do with Prince Shining Armor’s neverending bid to bring a hoofball team to the city. IMPERIAL COUNCIL AT ODDS WITH HOOFBALL PROPOSAL Well, that news was a bit more relevant, but the changeling had no interest in sports. Such a waste of time! But, there was an empty stadium left to host nothing but concerts and public gatherings, its full potential unrealized. The business mare within her nodded with sage wisdom the increase of revenue to the Crystal Empire with the addition of a sports franchise. Sighing to herself, she skipped the articles and went straight for the ads. The shop wouldn’t be open for another three hours, so she perused for deals and good sales, clipping coupons as she went. There was nothing wrong with saving few bits now and then. She hummed to herself tunelessly as one by one her eldest children began to get the others up. It was a domino effect; she would get the oldest up and they in turn would wake up the next one and so on. The egg didn’t count. It rested between her hooves. Wilda’s magic moved the pages and lifted her coffee. She was already on her third cup. Slightly smaller than the round hoofball, it was nearly full sized and the shell was almost solid. She estimated another week or so before it hatched, when it would be the size of a hoofball. “No more after you,” she said to the egg playfully, rubbing the tip of her hoof at its crown. “I don’t need the neighbors complaining of me having a swarm.” Eight was a good number to stop at. Why eight? Because she didn’t want nine, despite her husband’s protests. Large changeling families were signs of a prosperous house. The youngest of her hatched children was currently napping against her mother’s belly and just beginning the infamous ‘Terrible Two’s’. Wilda always had her little Trouble and the egg in with her. “Breakfast, mama?” asked a young voice to her right. Wilda smiled briefly before turning a stern eye to the owner of the voice. The twelve-year old colt looked so much like her first husband: tall in the holed legs with a barrel that would soon fill out into a masculine build mares would find pleasing. Hopefully, that was still years away. Other than that, his eyes were the typically solid blue, his horn a curved little blade in front of his head crest. Yes, he’ll make a fine warrior when his time comes, if she calls for him. She gave a brief, single shake of her head. No, that’s not for some years. The honor to serve will not be needed yet. “Have you taken the trash out, Shadow?” It was a common name changeling mothers gave their firstborn, be they male or female. Having a little dark nymph following their mothers ceaselessly made it an easy name to choose. “I was going to do it after breakfast, mama,” he said. “Are your brothers and sisters up?” An ear swiveled up as the sound of hooves thumping on the third floor indicated a small army was assembling at it tried to sort itself out up there. There was no arguing, but some sounds of scuffling could be heard. Arguing hatchlings often found themselves in a corner after having The Switch applied to their flanks. Wilda demanded an orderly household and suffered no bickering under her watch. “Yes, mama.” “Did you make your bed?” she arched a brow, fixing him a motherly glare. “Yes, mama,” he replied respectfully. Wilda leaned over and pecked him on the forehead. “Good boy. Go put the breakfast things on the kitchen table and go downstairs and start getting the shop ready.” The building was three stories tall and had a basement. The first floor was, of course the shop. The second and third floor housed the family while the basement was assorted storage for the household as well as the flower shop. Located on a corner near one of the city’s many public squares, Wilda’s Florist Flowers stood out as a modest and cozy-looking shop in a place where changelings were still adjusting to the idea of bright and colorful schemes for their shops. What they considered gaudy, ponies thought of as plain. The colt nodded and smiled, placing the expected kiss on his mother’s cheek as she proffered it to him. “Do it quickly enough and I’ll let you read the sports page,” she promised with a smirk. Next to tromp down the stairs was her second eldest, a daughter with her mother’s color hair and her father’s muzzle. Her mane was in pigtails and she half flew, half stomped her way down. The youngest hatchling stirred, glaring at her sister through unhappy and very sleepy eyes. She buzzed her wings and chirped angrily, to which her elder sibling simply ignored as she came up to her mother. “Good morning, mama,” she said sleepily, her eyes lidded and refusing to fully relinquish sleep. As her older brother did before, she kissed the cheek presented to her. “Good morning, Flower. Did you help Shadow wake the others?” “Yes, mama,” she replied. Wilda’s brood were well behaved before their mother. The remaining four clumped, buzzed, stomped, kicked, grumbled, chirped, and complained their way somewhat quietly down the stairs, each on on the heel of the other. Waking the hatchling would no doubt irritate Mother, as unnecessary noise in the house was considered rude. They ranged from nine to three and came down in descending order according to age. Two more colts, two more fillies. Forming a line, each one came up to their mother and kissed her good morning. She returned the favor with a small, motherly smile. Yes, they might have been an army in the eyes of the casual observer, but Wilda needed to maintain order over her large family to avoid the chaos of having so many nymphs. She loved each of her children, but foolishness such as petty squabbling was stamped down before seeds of such thoughts could begin to form. Yes, she was a tyrant in her home; a motherly and loving tyrant. Her methods weren’t perfect, but her children were considered some of the most respectful and well-mannered nymphs in the community. Thus was partly the reason for her queenly reputation among her peers. “Take your sister,” she commanded, sitting back and smiling down at her sleeping nymph. “and put the egg into the nesting box.” Both were taken with great and loving care. There was a squeak of protest from the youngest hatchling, flailing her hooves. She was shushed by her mother with a stern glare and a soft boop on the end of her muzzle. “Help get the others ready for school. Prepare real lunches for them this time, Flower! No more candy! I’ll be checking this time.” She sternly glowered at her daughter, who smiled sheepishly. “Yes, mama.” Yesterday was so much fun getting notes from the teachers asking why her nymphs were acting like wild monkeys before the inevitable sugar crashes which followed. Wilda was not at all pleased to see the larder empty of sweets. The healthy foods she expected her brood to eat at school remained untouched. The mare finished her coffee and read a few more articles on the front page before she decided to start looking for the deals. Her husband would be home soon, so she thought it would be nice to have a shopping list ready for him. There would be about an hour of shopping to get in before she opened the shop, so getting everything ready before Yamir came home was currently on the top of the mare’s list of things to do. Then she would let him sleep, she decided. Her day went more or less as expected; her young ate their breakfast, went to school, those too young for school stayed close to her. Wilda’s husband came home, was fed by his wife, and the remaining family went shopping, the egg held in a pouch all changeling mothers had while incubating. This kept the egg warm and safe, Wilda could constantly feed love to it while shopping. She could accommodate up to three hatchlings in the pouch as it hung from the middle of her belly. It swayed a bit from side to side, the head of her youngest poking through and watching the world from a viewpoint from between her mother’s forelegs. It was a bother for the mare to walk with a pouch loaded with a foal and an egg, so she used her wings and hovered, the tips of her rear hooves brushing the ground. The store did moderate business, having just received a fresh shipment of flowers and some gardening tools. Yamir slept through the afternoon, as he often did, and the children came home from school quietly and at the time they were expected to be home. Wilda worked the store, keeping her egg by the cash register while she puttered about her business. She had her regular customers, plenty of repeat business, as well as a lovely white unicorn mare with a mane in lovely curls who inquired about using flowers in fashion. The Equestrian was posh and polite, pleased with the selection Wilda had in her store, even buying some orchids before departing with a smile and a promise to return. Her children came home from school, babbling and talking cheerfully, glad to be free of the prison that was the education system, at least until tomorrow. Wilda rolled her eyes at some of the exaggerations her children said of what went on there. It was perfectly normal for any foal from any race to see learning as boring, but Wilda had visited the school and was satisfied with the teachers to this point. How many years had it been? Two? Yes, two years since coming to this little kingdom. Her husband was from this city and was technically a thousand years her senior. Stoic, quiet, and affectionate behind locked doors (he was paranoid of one of the nymphs barging in on their ‘happy time’). Yamir and Wilda were married shortly after she and her family had moved to the Crystal Empire. It was peaceful here, thankfully. Travelling with seven youngsters of varying temperaments was a trial in itself. A group of survivors from the same village grouped with her. They made it, despite the harrowing moments, found the Crystal Empire, settled down, and were bound and determined to make it a home. It helped that the Crystal ponies were already aware of a small group of changelings already living among them. The ponies were used to the presence of the predators already and were a bit more willing to welcome the newcomers, albeit with caution. She bought the shop, its previous owner one of the victims of the now dead tyrant a thousand years ago. Playfully swatting the last nymph’s rump with a hoof, she herded her brood up the stairs, warning them as she did every day for them not to wake Yamir. Putting the two oldest in charge, they settled about to homework and chores, depending. Seeing as it was nearly closing time, the mare went about cleaning up, casting a glance every now and then to the entrance of her shop, hoping for one more customer wanting to part from their bits. As much as Wilda was eager to close up and prepare supper, every little bit helped. Settling to her sweeping, she paused long enough to nuzzle her egg as it perched snugly in its place of honor next to the register. Judging from the lighting of the setting sun cascading into the shop, Wilda thought there was maybe another hour of daylight left. The door chime rustled softly, they song of crystals catching Wilda’s ears. They swiveled to the front of the store and her eyes followed, muzzle coming up. Automatically, the changeling called out, “Welcome to Wilda’s Flowers! Let me know what—” Her voice died as the tall figure of a hooded priestess filling her vision. “Oh. It’s you.” “Wilda, it is nice to see you so prosperous,” replied the visitor as she pulled back her hood. “Such a lovely shop! I swear you’ve managed to make a diamond in this rough!” It was Zeala. “I’m not converting,” Wilda insisted tiredly. “Your little neophytes can’t convince me and neither can you.” She went back to her sweeping. “Ah, I am not here for that,” came the reply. The priestess admired the colorful arrangements of flowers, slowly taking in the lovely sight. She came back to Wilda. “Your family grows,” Zeala noted as she stepped deeper into the shop, pausing to sniff at a flower. “I absolutely adore the scents in here.” Her eyes went to the egg. “Are you hoping for a male or a female?” she asked, making small talk. “Four hooves and a smile, I’ll be satisfied,” Wilda said with a soft smirk. “Not here to try and convert me, are you?” “Not at all. I’ve got a different sort of business proposition for you.” “Since when is religion a business?” scoffed the larger of the two mares. Wilda was easily twice the size of Zeala. The priestess had no meat on her bones! Zeala chuckled. “You’d be surprised,” she mused. Speaking up, she levelled her gaze at the big mare and tilted her to one side, “I have come across a foundling, an abandoned egg, to be precise. It hatched some weeks ago.” “Oh?” Wilda’s interest was piqued. “Naturally, with the temple under construction, there is no room for us to raise an abandoned nymph. I was wondering if you would be up for it.” Zeala glanced over her shoulder behind her. A hunchbacked changeling waited at the door and began to shuffle in at her unspoken command. A large cloth sling was draped over his shoulder and a bundle hung from his chest, held carefully by a foreleg. “Igor has been taking care of her until we can find a proper home for her.” “I hardly have room for ano—” interjected Wilda as her eyes went round. Zeala held up a hoof. “You will be compensated. I am not asking for your charity. This child is spoken for, and only needs to be raised until she is of age to be given over to Prince Reign Cloud as his servant.” “You invoke Servus Defensor?” Wilda asked in a hushed tone. Her mind raced to figure out what that meant. Everything came to a sudden halt as she found her answer with in the span of two breaths. “Reign Cloud? A soul bonding?” “He will need an advisor, a proper changeling servant. I have heard of how you raise your children. I approve of the results. I want Maggie to be the same way.” “Maggie?” Wilda repeated the question. “That’s her name?” She had her suspicions. “You doubt me? Igor, show her!” Zeala slid to one side as the hunchbacked changeling moved forward, gently producing from his pouch a little black ball of adorableness. Bright green eyes met Wilda’s and there was a moment of uncertainty from the little one. She looked up at Zeala and chirped, cringing away from Wilda and into Igor’s chest. Hearing about the nymph was one thing. Seeing it with her own eyes made Wilda melt a little. “Oh, oh!” she cooed, moving involuntarily closer. “She’s adorable!” Her eyes were locked and she was in moment looming over Igor. The poor stallion gulped and held out the hatchling like a worshipper presenting a living sacrifice to his ever-hungry goddess. Gently she took the scared little nymph, cooing at her gently as she gathered Maggie into her hooves, her rump having fallen to the floor. The hatchling squirmed, trying to get a look into the eyes of the mare, wondering if she was to be eaten. Her little nostrils flared, her toothless mouth opened in a hiss as her ears splayed back against her scalp. “You’ll be a feisty one,” Wilda noted with a smile. Raising her chin, she fixed Zeala a studious glance. “Fostership?” She cuddled the little one. “Indeed,” Zeala said. “I was able to get a concession from Princess Cadence in exchange for services rendered. I’ve already gotten her ear and the other thing I asked of her will be this little one” —she indicated Maggie with a nod— “when she is old enough. Until then, I would ask you to forge the core of her being. I want a strong child. A happy child. She must be able to make decisions to best suit the prince. He’ll need all the help he can get.” “Who is the hatchling’s mother?” Wilda asked. The priestess sighed through a thin smile. “A driven mare who allowed a moment of foolishness to impede her path to greatness. The father is hardly in a position to raise the little one and my temple simply cannot do it. Will you?” Zeala cocked a brow and pursed her lips patiently as she waited for an answer. “We feel this is the best way to deal with unwanted younglings. Find homes for them instead of taking them into an unfinished and unsafe environment where they would be underhoof and a distraction to the workers.” “I don’t know…” Wilda took the tip of her hoof and stroked the pale green mane of the filly in her grasp. “Would three thousand bits a month convince you? It will be all legal and the proposal will be forwarded to the Crystal Council for approval. I understand Princess Cadence is keen on ensuring all young ones grow up in a happy home. All foster families are compensated, so long as the ones under their care are allowed to be inspected without notice at any given time, should you agree.” Wilda inhaled deeply. Three thousand bits a month! She could expand the store! Open a second one! Hire someling so she could have more time with her family! Could she handle nine nymphs after her egg hatched? Her husband would be thrilled. Maybe hurt the ninth hatchling wasn’t his, but thrilled in the long run. Eh, what he wanted paled in comparison to the needs of the family. The family was what was important and Wilda knew what the family needed. All Yamir had to do was play the part of the proud papa and convince his wife he was indeed proud of his family and would be willing to go to any lengths to prove it. Which meant he was bound to run pointless errands just so Wilda could prove her point of who made the final decisions in the house. “Can we discuss this over tea?” she asked, knowing if she didn’t bring the subject up to Yamir, he would have a conniption. “My husband must be apprised of this development.” “Of course.” Zeala gave a brief nod and offered a half smile. “I trust he is a good provider for your family?” she asked conversationally. “Well enough,” replied the florist neutrally. Zeala nodded, then raised her voice slightly. “Igor, go wait outside for me. I won’t be long.” She smiled at Wilda, who returned it, if a bit forcibly. The hunchback simply turned on his back hoof and departed quietly. He had not been invited for tea and would not doubt be a distraction once the nymphs laid eyes upon him. Crippled changelings were rare as they were often given a merciful death rather than living a life with a broken body. “Would you be so kind as to turn the sign?” Wilda called out to the stallion. He paused in mid stride, peering back over his shoulder, one ear up, the other splayed out in confusion. “The sign in the window of the door,” she pressed helpfully, lobbing a hoof at the entrance. “Yes, that’s the one. Just turn it...yes, there you go! Thank you!” Releasing the sign with the words CLOSED facing out into the street, Igor nodded mutely and shuffled outside. He looked none too happy. Gathering up her egg, she stuffed it in her pouch, then popped the hatchling in with it until her belly hung past her knees. Inside, the squirming form of the nymph adjusted herself, finding the strange place oddly comforting, the muscles within the pouch pressing her gently and coaxing her to sleep. It felt nice to carry a hatchling. Maggie popped her head out of the entrance and sleepily stared about, snuggling into the coziness of her unexpected emplacement. A purr of contentment escaped her lips and she yawned mightily. Satisfied, Wilda beckoned the priestess to follow and hovered on her wings, buzzing up the stairs and hearing the other mare follow close behind her. “Put the kettle on,” she announced; which was her way of telling her brood to straighten up the dining room, pick up their toys and place them in their rooms, put the dishes away, do a quick check for anything out of place and put it in place. The youngest of the brood was cleaned up and whisked away to her crib and the others examined each other to make sure noling was too dirty. Wilda did so detest dirty little faces. Oh, and someling had to go wake up Father. Which meant Shadow, as he was the eldest. The thumping sounds of pounding hooves moving rapidly and the clank and clinking of things being set about, set down, put up, or put away lasted all of thirty seconds. Then there was another stampeding of hooves thundered to the living room, accompanied by the sounds of buzzing wings, like a swarm of giant bees. Then, it was as still as a crypt, save for the tick-tock of the cuckoo clock in the living room. The dining table was freshly wiped off with something that left a faint scent of potpourri to linger. Wilda paused at the doorway for a scant second, eyeing everything and finding nothing amiss. There was even a plate of cookies set on the table, along with a pair of plates for her and her guest. Her left eye twitched when she noticed a half-eaten cookie left carelessly on the plate. A faint trail of crumbs led to a pair of eyes and a single horn poking up from the other side of the table, staring at Wilda with huge, fearful eyes. Caught, red-hoofed. “Lily,” she reprimanded, vocalizing her disappointment in two syllables. There was impending doom and gloom behind that voice, and the filly to whom she was speaking to managed to look even more mournful. “Do you have homework?” she asked, shifting to a more gentle tone. Lily nodded. “Have you finished it?” Lily shook her head, the tresses of her pale blue mane bouncing as she did so. “Take the last half of your cookie and go to your room. Finish your homework and wait there until I call you. Understand?” The five-year-old nodded, a singular holed foreleg snaking across the table from the chair she had been sitting on and snatching up the other half of her ill-gotten treat. The changeling then dropped to the floor and scampered off, half buzzing and half bolting on all four hooves. Wilda sighed. “My apologies,” she offered, turning to Zeala. “My brood do like to test my resolve at times.” She flashed a fanged smile, almost daring the other mare to say something derogatory in regards to her offspring. Changelings mothers were protective of their naughty children. The mother gave the priestess a seat. “Rose!” she called. “Come and take the egg from me!” Her eldest daughter appeared even as Wilda popped the egg from her pouch, maneuvering it around the sleeping nymph. It took some manipulation of muscles as well as her lit horn. A weak protest squawked from Maggie, but she went back to sleep. The girl took it lovingly and beamed up at her mother. “Papa’s coming, Mama,” she told her as she turned to leave. “Thank you, my dear” “I’ll bring the tea for you when the kettle boils.” “Very good, my dear.” She bent over and gave her daughter a nuzzle before shooing her away. A stallion showed up in the dining room, fighting a yawn as he blinked through bleary eyes. “A guest?” Yamir asked, scrunching his muzzle as he adjusted his wings. He was a thin changeling with a narrow dorsal spike on his head to match. His chitin was slightly darker than his wife’s, his solid violet eyes immediately spotting the sleeping hatchling. For such a small male, he had a lot of muscle mass from working in the crystal mines. “Oh, Priestess Zeala! What an unexpected surprise!” He bowed as soon as he recognized her. “Stop fawning in the dining room!” Wilda sighed, yanking her husband up by an ear. “Sit down to tea. Zeala has a proposition for us.” Another magical tug and she hauled him to a chair, the wide-eyed male suddenly very much awake. “But, dinner,” he whined, his stomach growling audibly. “Hold her.” Maggie was thrust into his hooves. Yamir nearly toppled backwards and fought to keep his balance while not dropping the suddenly awake and staring nymph. “Don’t drop her! Don’t make any sudden sounds or moves! STOP WOBBLING IN YOUR SEAT!” He buzzed his wings to stay upright and steady himself, his wide stare locked on the little thing staring up at him. Her nostrils flared as she sniffed, eyes slowly blinking. “What is this?” Yamir asked his wife. “It’s a nymph, you dummy. Her name is Maggie. We’re fostering her.” He opened his mouth to protest, but only found a future of death and misery in the eyes of his beloved wife if he chose to answer poorly. “Hooray?” he offered helplessly. Maggie seemed to sense his discomfort and patted one of the hooves holding her reassuringly. Wilda smiled. “Good boy.” She turned to Zeala. “Let’s have tea while we go over the details.” In the kitchen, the kettle began to whistle shrilly. Zeala had been followed. Shatterback did not trust her, as his queen stated the same weeks ago. In the weeks since settling in as the prince’s shadowy protector, he had managed to slip into the position of nanny, his disguise perfect, the background for it impeccable. There were enough changelings who served the queen here to serve as additional eyes and ears. He was the best his queen had and she ordered him to watch over her son and keep him safe. Worry gnawed at him as the thought he had failed her presented itself to the forefront of his thoughts constantly. Right in front of him, she had taken what control he had and had it placed as neat as could be in her hooves! He protested, but could not do too much to expose himself and compromise his mission. Shatterback had felt no direct antagonism at his queen’s beloved Shadow, but the Essence could not be good. Even he had never heard of it. He would have to inquire his queen. She might know something considering her very long lifespan. The main concern was the prince’s safety. He was alive, his failing health stabilized. Shatterback had no idea how it was possible. Even the queen would not have expected such a turn of events, falling then rising in the prince’s favor. What was that scheming witch Zeala up to? Shatterback had followed her and her flunky, mindful to stay out of sight of the ponies preparing for the coming night. An invisibility spell kept him hidden and instinct kept him in the shadows wherever they could be found. Slowly across the city lamps lining the streets were lit and windows glowed from within homes. He found a nook on the roof of a house and settled there to observe and maybe learn a bit more about Zeala for himself. Seeing the hatchling she brought with her to the florist shop confused him. Why? Reign Cloud’s protector watched the hunchback changeling waiting outside the door, who ignored the passers bye on the street. He wasn’t much of a changeling to look at; crippled, unable to fly due to his condition, small, and unassuming. To the pair of eyes watching intently, there was the movement of lips as the changeling seemed to mutter to himself, staring at the cobblestone street distantly. The sun set, the moon rose. Shatterback moved nary a twitch of muscle, his eyes glued to the front door of the flower shop. The hunchback below moved little, sitting in a slumped position and letting his ears swivel about, listening. It was tiring. It was boring. Princess Cadence had given the nanny the day off so she could bond with her adopted colt. Shatterback really thought she and her husband should have learned her lesson by now concerning changelings. The hour grew late and growing colder by the time the front door opened. The plump mare dwarfing Zeala escorted the priestess out, her pouch distended. A brood mother? They were remarkably rare, Shatterback remembered. Extremely fertile changeling mares with a near queen-like stature while being of the Worker caste. This one was an impressive mare indeed! A small head was poking from the pouch from beneath the mare’s undercarriage, snoozing as the adults spoke quietly to each other. The large mare was none too pleased with Zeala, who grinned from ear to ear as she departed. As she turned to leave, Shatterback could have sworn she glanced at him, an eye flashing. No, a mistake. She did not see him. The two departed up the street, going beneath the lamp posts, the smaller stallion following the tall and lanky mare. Both had their hoods up and they spoke to each other, their voices too low to make out. Shatterback broke from his immobile watch and followed them along the rooftops, casting a silence spell upon his wings just as he took to the air. His movement broke the invisibility spell, but it was no longer needed. The pair of changelings below and in front of him seemed oblivious to the world around them. They were returning to the temple grounds. Suddenly, the changeling felt the presence of hostility around him, familiar. They reminded him of the same hostility the night the queen brought her son to the Crystal City. The assassins had returned. Three dropped around him, one on each side and another behind him. In front of him emerged a dark mare, a Noble. She was not as large as his queen, but her eyes glowed with hellish glee. The night concealed much of her features, but they were dark, befitting a shadowy killer. Lightly she landed in front of him, on top of the roof of one of the larger buildings. “Your queen is gone, warrior,” she told him in a harsh whisper. “You are abandoned to protect a thing taken in by prey.” Shatterback said nothing, but splayed his hooves in an aggressive posture and lowering his horn. His eyes darted to and fro, his ears focusing on the locations of the other three assassins. The mare grinned at him, keeping a safe distance. “You are formidable. You killed three of my finest slayers, Praetorian. I am impressed. Your queen chose her warriors well. Too bad you are tied to your precious queen.” She licked her lips hungrily, though it was not from lust. “Who are you?” demanded Shatterback curtly. “Your end.” She nodded and the three changelings around the warrior sprang forward silently, save for their buzzing wings. The battle was a spasm of movement, blurred and unseen by the naked eye. Shatterback dodged the first few blows, blocked the last pair and countered against his foes. The mare watched, studying him closely. For twenty seconds, she examined the fighting as it unfolded in an eerie silence compounded by grunts and hisses. Green blood flecked as hoof blows cracked through chitin and soft flesh, causing light wounds. The black ball of fury took to the air, split into four forms, then collapsed again. Changeling blood rained on the streets below. One of the figures faltered after receiving a seemingly glancing blow, fluttering down in pain, a leg dangling uselessly. Shatterback darted down after breaking free, passing by the falling assassin and slashing with his wicked horn. A throat was torn and the dying changeling gurgled, now dropping like a stone as he thrashed in his death throes. Before it could go far, the warrior gripped it with his magic and swung the twitching body as hard as he could at his nearest pursuer. There was a sickening crunch, mostly from the inert form and a pained grunt followed. Two forms now fell from the skies. Shatterback charged at the next closest one, who had been charging his own horn. Green fire formed, streaked at him. The warrior dodged, barely missed being hit. The two collided, fangs and hooves flashing and slashing. The trailing assassin joined the fray. The battle fell into one of the back alleys. The room to maneuver shrank rapidly, affecting the assassins more so than the lone fighter. The crystal walls were cold to the touch as they insulated the homes and buildings. They were unforgiving to flesh and chitin as they were slammed into them again and again. Green blood smeared against the smooth surfaces, a trash can was knocked over as the trio spilled over it. One of the forms tried to crawl away, its insides bleeding. Shatterback was up, partially into the street. A pair of ponies cried out in shock as he rose to his hooves, his face a bloody mess. One of his fangs was broken off and several bruises were forming. His chitin was cracked in places, his natural armor barely holding together. They ran off, crying out for the guards. The warrior ignored them as his remaining opponent emerged from the shadows warily, every bit as worn as torn as he. Suddenly, there was an explosion of pain between his ears. His body stiffened for a moment, his eyes wide with shock and pain. Then, he went limp, slumping to one side as he hissed. The mare hovered behind him, the tip of her horn glowing. She gave her last assassin a growl and he fell back into the shadows, leaving his companion to die. The mare snorted, examined Shatterback before lifting a hoof. Steadily she held it, measuring coolly before sending it down with all her might, crushing his skull. She snorted, gave her dying companion a sneer of disgust. Then, she shimmered and disappeared into the shadows. There was no nanny to resume her duties the next morning. A mother never found out the web being made around her son. A son would grow in a world where he could do little.